Nothing More Than We Can Do
by macgyvershe
Summary: One Shot. When Sherlock is injured there is nothing more that we can do.


**Nothing more that we can do**

"There is really nothing more that we can do, Dr. Watson."

"Thank you Dr. Clarkson, Would it be okay if I spent the night with him?" John asked.

"Yes, of course, would you like a cot brought in for you?"

"Yes, thanks. I appreciate your assistance in this."

Dr. Clarkson extended his hand in friendship. "I've read about the legendary friendship between you and Mr. Holmes. I'll be by in the morning and we'll have the results of all the post op tests. Have a good evening."

"I'll see you then." John said. He pushed a comfortable chair close to Sherlock's bed, but didn't sit.

"Well…Sherlock. I want to thank you so very much for pushing me out of the way of that murderer's bullet," John started out with a tinge of sarcasm in his voice, which broke down into a near sob. "but it would have been even better if you had dodged that bit of shattered bullet that nicked your hard-as-a-rock skull."

He took hold of Sherlock's hand.

"I'm going to stay with you tonight. I'm sure the tabloids will have a field day with that, but I really don't care. Right now, I care that they got you into surgery in time to reduce the bloody intracranial swelling in your brain. All we have to do is wait; you in an induced chemical coma. And me, out-of-my-mind, worried about you because brain damage is a real concern here, Sherlock."

"What shall we talk about? I should be thrilled about not having to contend with your massive intellect and non-stop monologs, but to tell the truth, Sherlock, I've give anything to hear your voice at this moment."

John broke down a bit; tearing up. Taking a deep breath he settled himself.

"Everyone's been by to visit; Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade, Molly even left you this little stuffed teddy."

John took the small animal from Sherlock's bedside stand and placed it on his shoulder.

"You know she still has a flaming crush on you. You really should do something nice for her. Take her to lunch or dinner. Or completely destroy her with some of your investigative prying into her social life." John took another deep breath.

"So I'm going to keep rambling along all night. Hopefully, it will keep me from losing it totally."

John walked around Sherlock's bed, checking tubing and monitors. Looking at Sherlock; his pale skin shown bright against the hospital bed sheets. He looked…so dead. John dimed the lights and returned to the chair. Sitting in it he again took up Sherlock's hand. It was warm.

"Come back to me, Sherlock. We all need you. I need you."

Rain began to fall outside, dancing across the windows as twilight turned to night.

"All I can do is wait to see if that nefarious intellect of yours can save the rest of your fragile human body." John watched the heart monitor. For someone with a brain like a race horse (faster please). Sherlock's heart beat slow and steady.

"Must be all that concentration you perform, sort of like meditation, slows everything down. Maybe that's why you need constant stimulation, both mental and physical."

"I'm so tired, Sherlock. This not knowing is dreadful." Cradling Sherlock's hand in both of his, John closed his eyes and let his tears flow.

Smoky grey eyes opened and flashed a milky blue. Surveying and notating his surroundings, his focus turned to his weeping companion.

"Tears for me, John? The rumors that I have been dispatched are faulty at best." A wicked slow smile emanated from his pale lips.

"Sherlock!" John looked into the razor sharp eyes of his best friend. "You shouldn't be awake for at least another 24 hours."

"Drugs, John, my body is used to throwing them off fast. I take it I have escaped death again, and by the copious amount of tears, by a hair's breadth?"

"You have no idea, Sherlock."

"I can remember having tea together in the flat on Tuesday. What day is it today?" Sherlock said as he delicately touched his bandaged head. "I take it I will be forced to wear that abysmal hat while my hair grows back?"

John couldn't help but smile. He quickly checked all the monitors. Sherlock was okay. Everything was going to be alright. A flood of relief swept through him and weariness overwhelmed him. "It's Thursday night."

"How long have you been up, John?"

"Too long." John replied.

"You should go home and get some rest."

"No, I'm not leaving you alone. I'm staying. I'll be okay in this chair."

"John," Sherlock eyed the cot a short distance away, "you need to rest. If you do not lie down immediately, I will be forced to sign myself out of this hospital and take you home and put you to bed myself." Sherlock made as if to lift the covers from his wiry frame.

"Sherlock, you are not going anywhere." John said pressing the blankets back over him.

Standing up John pushes the chair into the corner and moves the cot up against Sherlock's bed. Sitting on the cot, he takes his shoes off.

"You could always sleep in this bed with me," Sherlock teases.

"Like that's ever going to happen. Sherlock, the press already has us in bed together. We don't have to give them that photo op."

John shrugged out of his jacket just as the nurse who Sherlock has summoned, appeared in the doorway.

"Nurse," Sherlock looked at her name badge, "Pentalan. I am requesting that my friend and I not be further inconvenienced with hourly check-ups during the night. You may monitor my condition remotely, but do not let anyone enter this room until morning. My friend needs his rest. That will be all, you are dismissed."

"But Mr. Holmes…"

"I'd not argue with him, if I were you. He's already threatened me with signing himself out and going home," John admonished her.

"That would be …" she stammered.

"Disastrous. Yes, I agree," John said. "I will take full responsibility for him and I'll sign the bloody paper work in my own blood, tomorrow. I'll be right here, right next to him," John said as he lay down on his side on the cot, his back against the bed frame. "I've never seen anyone win a verbal battle with Sherlock Holmes."

Sherlock gave the nurse a steely eyed look as she backed out of the room and closed the door silently.

"I'm going to sleep now, Sherlock. I doubt these monitors going off could wake me, but if you move from that bed I will be on you in a minute. Sherlock—STAY."

John, exhausted, felt the pull of sleep dragging him away.

Sherlock listened to John's respirations as they moved from normal into sleep mode. Rolling over on his side he dangled his long arm over the edge and felt the soft hair on John's head. He stroked the hair for a bit, not knowing why it brought him comfort.

His mind began to race; ticking back into his jumbled memories, sorting out the sights and sounds of his missing hours.

He remembered the gun shot, the fatal trajectory; how he lunged with all his might to remove John from the 'kill zone.' The sharp impact as he fell, John pulling him into his embrace as he yelled into his mobile phone for an ambulance.

"Sherlock, can you hear me? Help is on the way, you have to stay with me." John applied pressure to the side of Sherlock's head.

"John, I can't see you. I can hear you." Sherlock voice was fading.

"That's okay, Sherlock, we'll get it all sorted out. I need a clean towel." He shouted at someone. "NOW."

The pressure was removed momentarily and then replaced with a pressing cloth. It was soaking wet in seconds.

"John, are you alright?"

"I'm perfectly fine, Sherlock."

Sherlock reviewed the lost time. And each and every time he'd awoken, he'd seen John's eyes looking at him from close or afar. Even as he'd entered surgery, Sherlock remembered John's eyes watching from above his surgical mask. John's warm and welcomed eyes.

He'd made the right choice. In the grand scheme of things, a Sherlock Holmes was a small price to pay to preserve a gallant John Watson. Sherlock continued to stroke John's hair.

When had care and concern for John turned into love_, _Sherlock asked himself?

"There's nothing more that we can do, John." Sherlock whispered. He let that thought reside within him. Maybe one day John would see the love in _his_ eyes.


End file.
